by Reapers
Veenure nods. “There is always something creeping in the sewers of an MMORPG.”
“Or a Zompoc world,” Frances chimes in.
A murky fog lies ahead, signifying the start of the moat. I don’t know about the rest of the guild, but I picked up an original set of Steve Zissou’s diving gear, item 50, at The Pier a few years back. Looks like it is finally going to come in handy.
“Once we’re out of the sewers, we’ll stay at a hotel in the red light district, where they won’t register your usernames,” Aiden says. “Then the guild will have a spawning point within the city walls, and we’re in like Flynn.”
Chapter Eleven
Moaty McMoatface. It only takes me one glance at the muddy waters to know I’d much rather be listening to the blues than diving in this sludge. It looks thicker than a Dunkin King malt protein plus peanut butter milkshake with a gluten-free whipped topping and kosher shade grown dark chocolate sprinkles.
To my immediate left, Veenure is all Pulp Fiction in a dive suit she had in her inventory list that could double as a BDSM getup. Rocket transferred Frances and Sophia diving suits, which don’t look too bad aside from the tiny shark fins on the backs of their shins. Aiden has gone old school – he’s in a Jacques Cousteau diving suit, the only other guy besides yours truly who has any style in our guild.
“You look nice,” Frances says to me.
“I agree, the light blue and sunflower yellow helmet bring out the color in my eyes.”
She sticks her tongue out.
“What, they do!”
“Does your suit have armor?” Sophia asks. “Ours do.”
“Why would I need armor to go for a little midnight dip?”
“Whatever.” She turns to the group. “Knights – only comms work under water in Tritania, everyone clear?”
Veenure says, “I’m still not on your comms, remember?”
“Rocket is working on it.”
“How can it be so hard? Most people just add by selecting someone’s name.”
Frances to the rescue. “Rocket runs an encrypted comms for us and he doesn’t like playing with the code to allow others in.”
Rocket: There’s no way anyone with any knowledge of Proxima communication systems will buy that.
Veenure shrugs. “Well, whenever he fixes it, I’m down.”
Rocket: She doesn’t know how comms works? Ha! I am so much smarter than her!
Me: Yeah, but she’s much more fun to look at!
Veenure is the first to jump into the moat, followed by Sophia, then Frances (who squeals as she hits the water), Aiden and yours truly. My goggles amplify ambient light as soon I’m in and everything glows neon green. Dirty Dave’s enhancements from way back pay off yet again.
Water and bubbles and seaweed – oh my! This moat is deeper than it looks, and a lot gloomier too – visibility drops off fast. Aiden lights a flare and my optics step down and down until I can see Aiden and his flare, and that’s it. I go to thermal imaging, which is better.
Me: Why the hell did he spark that thing up?
Frances Euphoria: Veenure doesn’t have any optical enhancement gear. She’s swimming in the dark.
Me: So she’s off comms and swimming in the dark. And we let her jump in first? Sounds to me like we’re dealing with some leadership issues in the KoNCM.
Frances: Well, you’re our fearless leader, if I’m not mistaken.
Sophia: If she were on comms, we could tell her to adjust the white balance.
Me: If we added her, she’d see my real handle.
Rocket: No, she’d see Steamboy, just like the rest of us.
Me: I really, really, need to change my handle.
Rocket: I can do it now if you’d like. You’ve earned it.
Me: Gee, thanks pop.
Rocket: What would you like your new handle to be?
Me: QDaddy187.
Frances Euphoria: QDaddy187? You serious here? Why do you want 187 anyway?
Me: Googleface it.
Sophia: The collective maturity level of our federally funded team blows my mind.
Me: All I’m saying is that it needs to be a handle that my enemies will remember when I kill them; a moniker that strikes fear in their pusillanimous hearts.
Frances Euphoria: Keep telling yourself that, tough guy.
Rocket: That’s why Steamboy_889 is so good. It’s memorable. I can imagine a bad guy screaming the name as he dies. DAMN YOU, STEAMBOY!
I glance over my shoulder and color me surprised, the obligatory monster of the enclosed underwater space is swimming our way. It’s big – not super-extra-huge big, but still big enough to snarf all of us down in two, maybe three bites. With its long neck, tear drop shaped body and long, finned tail it’s beautifully streamlined except for the end with the bitey parts.
~*~
The battle trumpet sounds and we’re forced to swim into formation to do battle with the Moat Ness monster, regardless of whether or not we want to. The creature has the body of a plesiosaurus and the teeth of Dawn O’Keefe, and its head is that of a Piranha Plant. The underwater beast is eyeless, covered with lesions and swarmed by hungry pilot fish.
Veenure is the first up. She does some tornado attack that produces mostly bubbles and little damage.
As I scroll through my list, Frances swims forward and strikes the not-so-pleased-iosaurus with her Ginsu knives, and has no more effect than would harsh language or fingernails.
Frances Euphoria: Its skin is like iron!
Sophia: Its skin is made of metal. Also, we’re attacking it underwater – our attack power is reduced.
Me: Step aside ladies and let Sir Gamesalot take a crack at it.
I quickly bring up the Tritania rules just to double-check. Most outside firearms are not allowed in Tritania. Your life bar will be docked if you equip an unapproved outside firearm.
Sophia: Hurry. I’m going to attack if you don’t!
Me: What’s your hurry? You got a hot date or something? I got this; I just wanted to check something.
I equip my German EMA naval mine, item 230. It’s magnetic, which means I don’t have to swim too close to the ugly bastard to detonate it. I do an underwater shot put maneuver. The mine floats over and once it plinks against the creature’s body – BOOM – the Moat Ness Monster’s life bar drops by half as the dark water in front of us churns and roils and fills with more bubbles than Mr. Clean’s Ibiza foam party.
Me: The rules didn’t say anything about explosives!
Sophia: Look again! All of us took some damage.
I glance up at my life bar to see that it has been cut by a tenth. “Oopsie!”
Sophia swims forward and executes a series of magicky hand-jive motions that form some oval-shaped something made of sparkles, glitter and light. Once it’s of adequate size, it drifts over to Ogopogo and transmogrifies into a seething mass of minnow-sized fish. They swarm it, nibble at it, and fractionally reduce its life bar with every bite.
Me: How’s that possible?
Sophia: Rust fish. I conjured some up and now they’re going to town.”
Me: So your plan is to rust it to death?
Sophia: It’s a long term strategy!
Me: Well, that’s certainly effective, Your Most Wowsie-Wowness of Prestidigitators! Got anything that’ll help us in this lifetime?
Aiden’s turn. He swims forward with a harpoon he procured from his own inventory list and thrusts it into the belly of the beast. Captain Ahab would be disappointed – little or no damage.
Cecil the Sea-sick Sea Serpent snorts bubbles and smacks us all with its tail, which whacks my life bar another seven or eight percent.
Rocket: Help is on the way! Frances, I’ve transferred a remote controlled US Navy Quickstrike Super Naval Torpedo to you. Just equip it, turn the joystick towards the Moat Ness Monster and press the red button.
Me: Holy Captain Nemo, Rocket! You got another?
Rocket: No problem, Q-migo, I’ll transfer you one.
> Me: I don’t know what that is, but thanks-a-mundo! And Q-migo? That’s actually not too shabby.
Item 576 appears in my list, and I know exactly how Ralphie felt when he unwrapped his Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time on Christmahanukwanzivus morning. New weapons? Always a rush!
The torpedo appears in Frances’ hands. It doesn’t look like such-a-much, and it’s disappointingly small – about the size of an overfed pug. She guides it into the open maw of our cranky Kraken, and the explosion vaporizes said aquatic menace. It also blows most of the water – and us with it – out of the moat, knocking our life bars down a good chunk.
Rocket: Holy crap! I got a screenshot!
We plunk down hard in the greatly diminished moat and everything freezes. We’ve won, and a bit of moola and EXP transfers into our shared account. Frances, true to her thiefy nature, receives a prize for her attack – a plesiosaurus tooth necklace.
~*~
“You gonna keep that necklace?” is the first thing I ask once we’ve made it through a dressed stone conduit and into the sewer, which most serendipitously has a raised walkway on either side. Turds the size of VolksAudis float alongside giant feminine hygiene products, clumps of multifarious tissue, former pet fish floating belly-up, empty Horse Piss flagons and discarded body armor. Almost reminds me of The Pier, almost.
“I’m keeping it. Frances’ dive suit dematerializes down her shoulders. Back in her cosplay Joan of Arc costume, her red hair now has an Herbal Essences luster to it, like she had time for a quick shampooing. The necklace tucks into the spot between her mams.
Veenure pushes past us, ruining our little flirt session. She does the fireball trick with her hand and forms a torch. “Let’s get to an inn. I need to watch my little brother in an hour.”
“Lead the way, el Capitan,” I call after her. We walk along a sewer tunnel big enough to fit Doc’s RV. Thulean writings are etched into the wall and the ground is littered with bones, lots of bones, enough so that it would be safe to classify the place as an ossuary.
Frances looks at Veenure. “You have a little brother?”
“I sure do,” she sighs, “his name is Dustin, and he’s a little turd.”
“Is he a Proxi-Kid?” asks Sophia.
“He’s in the Proxima Galaxy more than I am, which is some feat! He spends most of his time in Nickelodeon worlds.”
“No DisNike?” I ask.
“He likes the Star Wars universe, but he’s not really into cutesy, bowdlerized fairy tale worlds with self-esteem building life lessons and thinly disguised learning elements.”
“Smart kid.”
“He’s definitely smarter than your average six-year-old, but that doesn’t make him any less a little bastard,” she stops, turns to some Thulean written on the wall. “Hey, I can actually read this! It says, Homekh.”
“Yes, but that’s not all it says.” Sophia traces her fingers over the lower portion of the vertical script. “These words read Lava. So, homekh lava.”
“Lava? What’s that mean?” she asks.
“I have a Minions lava-lamp gun, item 239,” I announce. “It could mean that.”
“Ignore him,” Sophia huffs, and sighs with ill-concealed exasperation at annoying ol’ me. “Lava has the same meaning as dolakh. Both mean to be, but lava is only used in Polynya.”
“They even have regional dialects?” I snort.
Rocket: Homekh lava – it means be careful.
Me: Shoot me now.
Rocket: I would, but there’s an in-game penalty for that!
“Look,” I tell the group, “we’re in the sewers underneath a city of giants. How much worse could it get?”
Aiden appears in front of us, his Slice Bang at his side. “Heads-up everyone, we’ve got a Poop Monster headed right for us!”
~*~
Poop Monster.
That conjures up images of a toddler making poo-poos in a DisNike Licensed Winnie the Pooh musical onesie or something equally innocuous, and not the tremendous animated fecal hemorrhage that… ahem… blocks our passage. This towering toxic avenger defies classification; truly it is a doody beast that only an immature, prescription medication-abusing, spray paint huffing, antifreeze quaffing, genre fringe-fiction author could conjure up.
I glare at Aiden. “POOP Monster? Seriously? An angry clump o’ blood thirsty turds the size of frickin’ Godzilla might have been a slightly more accurate description, don’t you think?”
“I call’s ‘em how I sees ‘em,” he shrugs.
Deep breath. “Fair enough. Okay, Knights – if anyone has a Rosie O’Donnell-sized Depends in their inventory, now would probably be a good time to produce it,” I suggest, as I step to the forefront and brace for an attack.
The feculent nightmare hurls a bolus of well-aged nitrogenous waste at me, which splatters against my armor like a June bug on a windshield and knocks my life bar down by seven or eight percent. It also makes me want to do the icky-icky dance like a little sissy-britches, but I refrain, and endure the shower of ignominy in tough and manly silence.
“Again, giant Depends anybody? Personal freshness wipes would also be good.” I scrape off what I can as best I can, only to discover that it doesn’t really scrape off. “Fifty-five gallon drum of Smaxxe body spray wouldn’t be bad either. Anybody? No? Figures.”
Sophia rolls her eyes. “Why would anyone have any of that?”
“A robust list is a sign of a healthy mind and not a manifestation of a hoarding disorder.” Speaking of which, I give the list the old Showcase Showdown scroll. The price is wrong, Bob! My finger lands on my Impact Deluxe Professional Plunger, item 389. Sometimes I think my list has a mind of its own.
“Surely, you can’t be serious,” says Sophia.
“I am serious, and don’t call me Shirley.”
She makes an involuntary snort of surprise, and then rolls her eyes to show how she’s really above that sort of thing. “Well hurry, others are waiting to attack.”
“What is with you? Go ahead and attack then! Don’t bother the chef when he’s in the kitchen!”
Frances steps forward and performs a multi dagger attack called Boomerang Toss, which doesn’t have a whole lot of effect.
“Gross! Now my daggers are covered in poop!” She holds the daggers between thumb and forefinger, as far away from her body as she can get them.
“I know what the monster’s called!” Veenure raises her finger in the ah-ha! gesture. “It’s a Fecal Pixie. There’s a pixie trapped inside there!”
“How did it get trapped?” I ask as Aiden steps forward to attack. He does a flip attack, comes down hard with his Slice Bang and also does little or no damage.
“They go looking for jewels in the … um … poo,” Veenure explains. “Sometimes they get stuck and when they do, their pixie dust mixes with it and they become Fecal Pixies.”
“Igjigcha Dookh,” Sophia says in Thulean. “I’ve read about these things!”
“Wunderbar, Fraulein Dozentin! Enough with the pretend gargle-talk,” I say, “Step aside, Knights. I’ve got just the thing for this schiesse pixie. This one’s for you, Rocket!” I equip Chewbacca’s Bowcaster, item 169, load the plunger, and zip it on its way. It splorps into the Fecal Pixie, and with a fine and inevitable predictability has almost no effect.
Rocket: Better luck next time!
Sophia snaps her fingers to get Veenure’s attention. “Let’s try a combo.”
Veenure narrows her eyes and frowns at her briefly, before they join hands ring-around-the-rosie style and circle to the left, or widdershins, as I’m sure Sophia and her big brain would insist on calling it. They levitate as they pick up speed, and the vortex they spawn sucks in enough bones and bone fragments to build a do-it-yourself Giganotosaurus Rex skeleton with sufficient left over to keep Toto and ninety-nine of his closest canine compadres busy a-burying in the backyard for a week – or forty-nine dog-days.
> They whirl like a pair of tweaker dervishes; they blur faster and faster into a counter-clockwise centrifugal column of rotating destruction – and then abruptly stop and hang in mid-air as all the bone debris slings off from around them and straight into Mister Hankey.
Well Howdy-ho, boys and girls! That’s the most effective attack we’ve managed to muster. The gals’ whirling wall of flying bone depletes the Poo Beast’s life bar by 25%.
COMBO MADE! Bonenado!
“Bonenado?” My internal Buffcoat and Beaver chortle and snort, “Huh-huh-huh – it said bone!” as the name flashes and fades. Tritania AI has a malevolently twisted sense of humor.
I like it.
The Fecal Pixie I like less. It gathers itself into a pasture pattie of unusual size and hurls itself at us as if it had been sharted direct from Hell’s sulfurous rectum.
“Dammit!” All I can do is close my eyes as it plops down on top of us.
Belly-flop of bum pie!
Doc’s state of the art equipment very accurately transmits the simulated sensation of total immersion in a warm, moist, fibrous, creepy-crawly infested shit bath to our sensory receptors. It is every bit as vile as one would imagine, and darned uncomfortable, too. It has also knocked our life bars down almost into the red.
Frances performs a very sophisticated rendition of the icky-icky dance; easily 9.6 or 9.7 for difficulty and artistic interpretation. The more she tries to wipe the enchanted oobleck off, the more it spreads and sticks.
“We need to take it out this round!” she rather unnecessarily points out.
Sophia says, “We can try to–”
“–I have an idea, a good one this time!” I give my list a quick scroll all the way down to item 566, my Almost Universal Solvent Hose Gun.
“Another gun?” she cries.
“Not just any gun – it’s a hose gun.” I tell her. “Say it with me, hose gun. Not flinging any metal here.” I brace myself and pull back the lever. In my best FDNY impression, I keep the nozzle aimed at the turdling terror and drench it with one of Dirty Dave’s more esoteric and inventive weapons. Steam rises like the morning mist over a Mongolian sewage lagoon, and the creature roars and bellows its discomfitude.